Christmas morning, 4AM. Half-wakeful and through a Ny-Quil haze, fervidly stumbling through the checklist of Christmas Magic. The tree is lit. Santa, having deposited gifts and partaken in light refreshments, scrawls a cursive note in red crayon.
The youngest is up at 5, presents are opened. A princess movie keeps her entranced long enough for me to make a quick quiche.
We eat and crawl into the big bed at 7. I have fitful and realistic nightmares of babies tumbling down the stairs, slipping through railings. In one dream, I visit my best friend and walk hand-in-hand down her street to watch a vivid sunset.
I wake at noon, sweating, to the sound of an automated Hot Wheels race track shooting cars through spiral loops. Cheap metal ricocheting off the hardwood floor. Tiny, maniacal belly laughs, her father’s mirthful complicity.
I take the hottest shower possible. I clear the mucous in a loud and guttural fashion, like a dog choking on pond water. Hyoueck. I slather my chest in Vick’s Vapo Rub and feel the delicacy of my collarbones.
This illness is making me feel sluggish, but present. I feel grounded. Perhaps subterranean. Not moving much, but connected in ways not obvious above the surface.
A slow day of play. Opening toys, eating pasta. Getting Chinese takeout. After dinner we walk to the park. The fresh air clears my head, sinuses, lungs.
The old neighborhood is the epitome of peace. Stately mid-century brick houses practically purpose-built for Christmas Day. There’s barely any traffic. One other mom at the park, heavily pregnant, pushes her two grade-school-aged kids on the swings.
Small talk. We gape at the mother-of-pearl sunset, striated by periwinke clouds blowing off the lake. I’m not sad we don’t have snow on Christmas, she says. I’ve shoveled enough of it since Thanksgiving, I offer.
We walk to the Little Free Library and get a book about unicorns. The purple clouds are lighting up coral. Vivid like my dreams. Like the burning in my chest.
Not meds or the virus, but the true warmth of peace and purpose.
We slowly start back. Hopefully her father has napped.
I think the fever has broken. I think I am where I am meant to be.
